“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Erin said to Farnsworth as they entered the lobby of the York Grand Hotel Friday afternoon.
“I’ll let you know when the circulation returns to my extremities,” she replied, lumbering behind her. Farnsworth was a rather large woman who usually carried herself gracefully, so Erin took the heavy stride as a reproach for being forced out in inclement weather. “Do you think you brought enough clothes?” Farnsworth asked, with a glance at Erin’s compact suitcase.
“I always overpack, so I tried to travel light this time, she shrugged, taking in the spacious lobby with its inlaid marble floors, wrought iron railings, and elegant arches. “This place is quite something. I can see why it’s a five-star hotel.”
“A splendid example of Edwardian architecture,” Farnsworth said. “Or so the guidebooks say.” The building really was beautiful. It was all red brick with long, elegant windows, gables, and cupolas. Ornate, but not overdone.
A familiar voice floated across the marble lobby.
“If adventures will not befall a young lady in her village, she must seek them abroad.”
Erin turned to see Prudence Pettibone, flanked by her best friend, Hetty Miller. A more unlikely pair was hard to imagine—Prudence, short and frumpy, with dull brown hair and clothing that seemed to have been plucked from a jumble sale remainder bin—and Hetty, tall, slim, and decked out like a store window mannequin, with rouged cheeks and mascara so thick it appeared to have been applied by a bricklayer. She spent more on a single outfit than Erin spent on clothing in a year. Hetty and Pru were inseparable, though they argued frequently and competed compulsively. As co-chairs of the Conference Planning Committee, they had been at one another’s throats quite a bit over the past few weeks.
“Hello, Pru—hi, Hetty,” Erin said warmly, glad to see them. For all their oddness, Pru and Hetty had been loyal friends to her since her arrival in Yorkshire less than two years ago. The four women met once a month for dinner, each taking turns hosting.
“Hello, Prudence—grand master of the Austen quote, as always,” Farnsworth remarked. “Though you might find some competition within the ranks this week.”
“If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory,” Prudence replied with a little smile, no doubt intended to be mysterious, but which came off as smug.
“You’re looking gorgeous as always,” Farnsworth told Hetty.
“Thank you, dearie,” she replied, rewarding her with a glittering smile. “Isn’t this just too exciting?” she asked, adjusting her very short black leather skirt over knee-high matching boots. Even in this weather, she wore three-inch heels; her outfits were never designed for practicality. She gave her dyed crimson curls a shake. “I can’t wait to hit the spa. I’m going to get the massage and facial package.” She turned to Farnsworth. “I expect you’re going to the restaurant straightaway.”
“I think we’re all quite keen on the food here,” said Erin.
“Not Hetty,” Prudence replied. “She lives on wheat grass and kimchi.”
“That’s absurd,” said Hetty. “I just have a fast metabolism. You’re not wearing your eyeglasses,” she said, peering at Erin.
“She finally took my advice and got contacts,” said Farnsworth.
“Well done, you,” Hetty said. “Mustn’t hide those nice blue eyes.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job spearheading the organization of this conference,” said Erin. “I know how much work went into it.”
“A lot of people lent a hand,” said Prudence. “We couldn’t have done it without your web mastery, posting it all over social media.”
“Don’t forget Carolyn’s wonderful artwork,” said Farnsworth. Carolyn Hardacre, who taught at York University, was a talented artist, and had designed the logo and conference programs. Her husband Owen was president of the North Yorkshire branch of the Jane Austen Society.
“Is she coming?” asked Pru.
“I don’t think so,” said Erin. “She had family obligations.”
“And Owen would never show up without her,” Farnsworth added.
“Are you going to see that sexy detective of yours?” Hetty asked Erin.
“If he’s around.”
“Why wouldn’t he be around?” said Prudence.
“His mother’s been ill. He’s been going over to Manchester to see her.”
Hetty shuddered. “The traffic around Manchester is dreadful, especially at rush hour.”
“Well, I’d like to go see my room,” said Farnsworth. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check in.”
“Good idea,” Erin agreed.
The pert young woman at the concierge counter had made a show of busying herself during their conversation, but she had obviously been listening intently as she pretended to sort papers. Now she smiled sweetly as they approached.
“Welcome to the York Grand Hotel,” she said, all polished teeth and glimmering red lipstick. Her name tag identified her as Tricia.
“Why, thank you, Tricia,” said Farnsworth.
She cocked her head to one side, her tight blonde curls brushing the shoulder of her starched uniform. “Is this your first time here?”
“Yes,” Farnsworth replied. “Though hopefully not our last.”
Erin glanced at her friend, hoping she wasn’t about to say something naughty; she had that look in her eye. Just to be sure, Erin gave her a gentle nudge in the ribs. Farnsworth emitted a little squeak.
“Are you all right?” asked Tricia, her voice carrying just a hint of condescension.
“It’s my lumbago,” Farnsworth replied. “Acts up from time to time.”
“What exactly is lumbago?” said Tricia.
“I have no idea, but mine is terrible in rainy weather.”
Erin poked Farnsworth harder, which her friend ignored, smiling sweetly at Tricia. “You do have a lift, don’t you?”
“Yes, indeed, though you can have a first floor room if you prefer.”
Farnsworth shook her head. “Oh, no—I can’t bear the thought of people looking in the window at me. My ex-husband was a Peeping Tom,” she explained in response to Tricia’s bewildered look.
Check-in concluded without incident, but as the four friends boarded the lift, Erin said, “Why were you so beastly to that poor concierge?”
“Didn’t you see her eavesdropping on us?”
“We made it rather difficult for her not to overhear us,” Erin replied.
“What do you mean?” asked Hetty.
“Your voice,” said Prudence. “It could cut through glass.”
“Rubbish,” Hetty retorted. She turned to Farnsworth. “Do I have a loud voice?”
Farnsworth coughed delicately.
“Well?” Hetty demanded.
“The term ‘clarion’ comes to mind.”
Hetty frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you sound like a bloody trumpet,” said Pru.
“Isn’t this your floor?” Farnsworth asked as the doors opened onto the third floor.
“Yes. Come along, Hetty,” said Prudence.
“Coming,” Hetty said, stumbling as her high-heeled boot caught in the gap between the door and the carpet.
“Mind your step,” said Farnsworth, offering her hand.
“Thanks—I’m all right,” Hetty replied, righting herself.
“Don’t know why you insist on wearing heels at your age,” Pru muttered, but Hetty pretended not to hear. No one really knew Hetty’s age, and she did her best to keep it at bay, like a wary fighter facing a dangerous opponent. Rumor had it she had spent a small fortune on cosmetic surgery. Prudence gave her friend a hard time about the endless primping and posing, but Erin thought she secretly admired Hetty’s energy and style. No one could accuse Prudence Pettibone of having anything that remotely resembled style.
Farnsworth had booked a suite on the fourth floor, and after helping her insert the key card correctly into the lock, Erin went up to her room one floor above. She had requested a gabled room on the top floor, and was glad the hotel had obliged. It was smaller than the ones on lower floors, but the slanted ceilings and the view more than made up for it. It reminded her of her childhood room in Oxford, where she had the entire floor to herself.
Pulling back the sheer white window curtains, Erin was delighted to see the Gothic towers of York Minster across the River Ouse. York was a medieval fortified city and the multiple spires of the famed cathedral thrust at the sky like spears, as if the very air was a threat to the town’s security.
There was a knock on the door. Erin opened it to see a slight young man in a bellman’s uniform holding an enormous bouquet of flowers.
“Ms. Erin Coleridge?”
“Yes.”
“Delivery for you. Shall I put them inside?”
“Uh, yes, thank you,” she said, rifling through her purse in search of a tip.
“Ta, Miss,” he said, tipping his hat when she handed him a couple of pounds.
She read the card on the flowers.
“Welcome to York. Hope these aren’t too ‘Austentacious.’—P. Hemming”
“Oh,” she groaned. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?” Detective Peter Hemming had confessed early on his fondness for bad puns (though, Erin wondered if there was any other kind). Still, as her mother always said, you take the bad with the good if you want to have any people at all in your life. “These must have cost a bundle,” Erin murmured, putting the flowers on the dresser. “And on a policeman’s salary.”
She had barely spoken to him since he concluded the Kirkbymoorside murder investigation in late October, much less seen him. Erin had been nervous at the thought of coming to York, where he lived. If he didn’t have time to see her here, the only reasonable conclusion was that he wasn’t interested, in spite of the obvious chemistry between them.
As she unpacked, Erin thought about the politics of sexual attraction. Her mother, for all her energy and strong personality, had been surprisingly conservative in that respect. She discouraged Erin from pursuing boys, insisting that “males enjoyed the thrill of the hunt.” Thrill or not, if Erin liked someone, she had no qualms about making the first move. But with Peter Hemming, the situation was complicated. They had met while he was the lead detective overseeing a homicide investigation in which Erin was a potential suspect, so their relationship—such as it was—was a delicate dance, an avoidance of impropriety.
But now with the case solved (mostly thanks to her), things were simpler—weren’t they? Did he resent her intervention, because she was ultimately responsible for solving what was, after all, his case? Or was she the one avoiding further intimacy? She contemplated all of this as she took her copy of Sense and Sensibility from her suitcase. Erin was rereading it, and was a bit taken aback at how well she understood Elinor, with her distrust of sentiment, her reliance on reason. Erin suspected her mother’s untimely and shocking death made her shy away from emotional involvement, but was that too easy an answer? After all, even Elinor found love eventually, as all good Austen heroines do.
If only real life fell into place as smoothly as it did for characters between the covers of romance novels,she thought, putting the book on the bedside table. She puttered around her room, unpacking and examining the various amenities. The flat-screen television was ample and the room was large enough for two armchairs and a small settee at the foot of its queen-size bed. There was a well-stocked minibar, which she intended to avoid. She was unaware of how much time had passed before there was another knock on the door. Erin opened it to see Farnsworth, dressed to the nines in a deep-blue evening frock.
Farnsworth frowned. “Why aren’t you dressed? It’s almost time for the meet and greet.”
“Really?”
“It’s nearly four thirty. Cocktail hour starts at five.”
“Sorry—I lost track of time.”
“We agreed to be early, seeing as we’re the hosting branch.”
“You go ahead—I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Erin quickly slipped on a slinky black dress and heels, applying some mascara and a bit of rouge. The tower clock high atop York Minster was just chiming the hour as she headed downstairs.
On the way to the party, Erin stopped by the conference bookstore to pick up her name badge and attendance packet, including the panel and event schedule. The bookstore was set up in one of the smaller meeting rooms, and had been organized by members of the Society’s Southern Branch. Tables of books lined the walls, and included Jane Austen novels, works by her contemporaries, as well as historical studies, nonfiction pieces, and books by conference attendees. She was amused to see there were even a few copies of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. There was also a section where people sold other wares such as period clothing, baked goods, herbs and spices which Jane Austen might have eaten, and other Regency era items, like fancy canes, gloves, hats, and ladies’ fans.
A few people were gathered in the 1906 Bar when she arrived, but Erin didn’t recognize anyone from the Society’s North Yorkshire Branch. The décor was reminiscent of an exclusive London club, in muted grays and burgundy with inlaid parquet flooring.
“First round is on me,” said Farnsworth, beckoning to her table in the middle of the room. She looked resplendent in her deep-blue, off-the-shoulder evening dress and creamy silk shawl, her dark hair in loose curls around her neck. “What would you like?”
“You go ahead,” said Erin. “I’m just going to pop into the loo. I forgot to put on lipstick.”
“You’re pretty enough without it.”
“As long as we’re trading compliments, you look fabulous.”
“I do, don’t I?” Farnsworth said with an angelic smile, and headed off to the bar.
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
